


Nothing Can Harm You

by LateStarter58



Series: The Adam and Stella Chronicles [1]
Category: Only Lovers Left Alive (2013)
Genre: Abusive Marriage, Character Turned Into Vampire, Coercive Abuse, F/M, Vampire Turning, Vampires, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 03:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16865473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Stella is hiding, deep in the quiet French countryside. Her closest neighbour seems even more of a hermit than she is. Who is he, and why are the shutters on his house down all day?





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> As is the case with all my writing, this story owes a great deal to the help and support of my friends.

“ _Fraxinus excelsior_ ,” the man murmured to the tall trees as he walked slowly by, silent through the dark. The moon was half a silver coin in the blue-black sky. The mountainous clouds framed around it stood tall and spooky in the gleaming light. A shape flew overhead, moving as noiselessly as he.

“ _Strix aluco_.”

His eyes followed the owl’s flight as it banked to his left and he allowed his gaze to fall downwards until it was passing through shimmering leaves of the line of ashes towards the brightly lit windows of his neighbour’s house. Was he hoping for a glimpse of her? He reached the fork in the lane, where the cracked tarmac of the road to his house split from the narrower gravel and dirt track that continued to hers. He looked behind him at the dark shape of the mansion: it was old, too large for one person and it appeared, to all intents and purposes, dead. Her place was smaller, newer and alive.

A haunting cry split the night. ‘ _Vulpes vulpes_.” He turned and walked at the same stately pace back down, towards what was now his home.

Most nights he’d walk for a little while, before he started work. Just across the fields behind the house mostly, exploring beyond his boundary, but not far. He’d skirt the copse of _Quercus robur_ and _Fagus sylvatica._ Every now and then he’d lock gazes with a farm cat, or a fox, or maybe a beech marten: _fouine,_ they called them locally. _Martes foina…_ A snarl or a terrified look was the normal response. He was making an effort to ‘appreciate nature’, but not all of it appreciated him back. Sometimes lately he had been going the other way too, this way. Up the slope of his driveway, strolling close to the ditch and the barrier of trees that divided his place from hers.

He saw her sometimes: washing up at the kitchen window that looked out onto her front garden, or watering her window boxes after dark on hot nights; softly lit by a lamp as she sat reading in her big armchair, her feet tucked up under her, or just sitting quiet and still on her neat back terrace with her after-dinner coffee.

She smelled enticing.

 

The woman stood at the sink, humming to herself, her hips swaying as she washed the saucepan. Something made her pause and look up the drive. There was no sign of life: no headlights or movement. Had there been a noise? She wasn’t sure. It was a beautiful moonlit night. She smiled as the fox’s call reached her ears.

“I shall have my coffee outside tonight. It’s warm enough.”

_I really must stop talking to myself. Or at least get a dog to talk to._

She had these solo conversations when she felt scared, or lonely. Which was still quite a lot, although less often than before. She was safe here, out in the middle of nowhere. Safe from _him_ , or anyone. She knew that, but every now and again she would feel that tiny tingle of unease.

Last thing at night was the loneliest time: putting the lights out and going up to that empty bed. _Nobody there to tell about your day, or your plans for tomorrow. Nobody to snuggle up to_. Climbing the elegant and modern spiral staircase she had installed after buying the house, she wondered if this was her lot from now on. Was she condemned to a lonely existence, thanks to the catastrophic error she had made as a wide-eyed girl barely out of her teens? The need for isolation, for escape from the horror of her old life had brought her here. She felt safe now, but the price of that security was a certain… _emptiness_. She had her books, her garden, her music, but she craved something more. The solitary, cut-off nature of her new life meant she doubted it was possible for her to find that missing element she needed.

She looked out before she lowered the shutter completely. There were lights on over the way. It was another stifling night and she left the window open wide. As she laid on the cool sheets in the dark the muffled sound of music drifted over on the still, hot air. It had to be coming from his house. She couldn’t make it out properly. Just a bass rhythm and perhaps a repeated guitar riff…

_What do you do? Who are you?_

A musician? That might explain the odd hours and the odder behaviour. _Some sort of hermit? Or a drugged-up weirdo?_

Not for the first time that summer, she went to sleep puzzling over the man next door.

 

The next day, as she was winding down and digesting her lonely dinner, he was stirring. It was dark out already, and he needed to go and get something. But just at that moment, as so often when he awoke, he was struggling to remember why he was still here. Why was he still struggling on? Why, all those months ago, he hadn’t just gone out before dawn and waited for the inevitable?

_Because she begged you not to, that’s why_

_Because she made you promise to find a new place, safe and quiet, and carry on_

_Carry on_

_What the fuck for?_

 

The stars were out, the moon was hidden for the moment and it was magical. She was lying on the sun lounger in the middle of her lawn, just looking up. Back in London she’d had no idea just how many stars there were up there. You could hardly see any in the city, but here… _The sky is full of stars…_

A shudder ran through her. _2001_ was one of _his_ favourites. She tried to avoid thinking about him, but it was hard not to. He had filled her life when they were together. You might say he had dominated it. That was how he had wanted it, anyway. And when she had resisted, he held on tighter. Now she had escaped, but he still had a hold on her memory, even if she had got away from his physical, legal and financial grip. She was safe, here in her garden in the depths of rural France, but he still haunted her thoughts.

The night was still and very quiet; suddenly she heard his front door bang shut, even though it was several hundred metres away. She sat up and looked across, but the trees blocked her view. Then she saw headlights and his car started up, that odd whirring, humming whistle. At first she had assumed from the noise it made that it was one of those fancy new electric jobs, but when she caught a glimpse one night she recognised it as a classic, a dark blue Citroën DS.

As usual when her mysterious neighbour made these occasional but seemingly regular nocturnal trips, he drove quickly up the side of their shallow valley towards the road.

_****_

“So, _Madame Broon,_ have you met your neighbour yet?”

She smiled politely as Marie-Claire mangled her name yet again. “Please, call me Stella. No, not yet. He doesn’t seem to go out much. And he never answers the door.”

The baker’s wife leaned forward conspiratorially and continued in a stage whisper.

“Jean-Claude’s nephew runs errands for him, collects stuff, has things delivered… _apparently_. He won’t tell _anybody anything_. Says he’s signed a paper, or something.” She checked there was nobody else in the shop. “We think he’s a criminal on the run…something like that. He’s English, you know…  perhaps _you_ would recognise him so he won’t let you see.”

Stella shrugged. It had all been very quick and mysterious, that was true. She heard on the grapevine – the village was small, everybody knew what was happening, usually – that the big house next door to hers had been sold at last, then one night about a week later there was a car in the driveway and the lights were on. By morning all was quiet again. The shutters were closed, and had remained that way all day, every day since. Occasionally at night she had seen lights in the windows, or a flash as the door was opened; his car passing the end of her part of the drive, but she had never seen him. The only visitor he had, apart from Camille the postie, was indeed Luc, nephew of the village _boulanger._

‘Well, he is pretty damn rude, I know that much. I called with some strawberries and a cake to welcome him, the day after he arrived. No answer, so I left them in the porch. They were gone the next day but no thanks. Not a word.”

“Dreadful,” the _boulangère_ agreed sadly.

Stella gathered her baguette and the little bag containing her coffee éclair – her Friday afternoon treat – and bid Marie-Claire _bonne journée_. As her car reached the fork in the shared driveway she slowed and looked at the big, grey, stone-built manor house. Its turrets and blank windows glowered back at her. It appeared as empty and derelict as it had six months before.

_Who the hell are you? What do you do all day with the shutters closed? Why won’t you answer the door? Where do you go at night in that strange car of yours…?_

Judging from what the village information hub had said, she wasn’t likely to get answers any day soon.

 

The dream had come again. _Others._ They were searching for him. Not wanting to dwell on that thought, he roused himself and dressed. The night was young but the heat was heavy and he guessed her windows would be open again. He moved to the big room and crossed it, stepping carefully between wires and cables, junction boxes and transformers to the tall windows. He pressed the button that opened the shutters and peered through the slit between the thick dark curtains he had hung, there as in every room.

There was a light breeze drifting, insufficient to cool a fevered body but enough to blow the fragrance of it across the space between their houses. The smell of her made him moan.

 

Stella adjusted the fan. She couldn’t understand why the higher settings seemed to cool her less than the lowest one, but for now it was proving impossible to get the direction right so that she could lie down in comfort.

“I can’t sleep with it like this!” She sat on the edge of the bed, her body almost touching the safety cage around the blades, luxuriating in the moving air as it caressed her sweaty skin. Then she did what she often did when she wanted to calm herself: she began to sing.

“ _Summertime…. And the living is easy…”_

Beyond the trees, across the dried-up ditch and the sandy area that served as his frontage, her neighbour’s whole being stiffened. _That voice…_

_“Fish are jumpin’… and the cotton is high…”_

Faster than a human eye could see, he had grabbed his boots and was making for the door.

“ _Oh your Daddy’s rich…and your Ma is good-lookin’, so hush little baby, don’t you cry…”_

As silent as an owl, as fast as a weasel, he reached the closest point to her house. Still on his own property, he waited for the beguiling sound to continue.

_“One of these mornins…you’re gonna rise up singin’…”_

He mouthed the words. He took a deep gulp of the thick, hot air, full of the scent of her. He looked up, through the thickly leaved branches, towards her window and could see her perfectly framed there, silhouetted against the light of her bedside lamp.

_“You’re gonna spread your wings and reach for the sky…”_

He felt something for the first time in… _how long_? A sensation creeping up his back and down into his guts. And lower. A feeling he had never expected or wanted to have again. One he had almost forgotten.

“ _Until that mornin’, there ain’t nothing can harm you… With your Mammy and Daddy standin’ by…”_

_****_

Distant rumbles were being borne towards his sharp ears on the freshening wind. Looking up into the cloud-filled sky he could see tiny bats swooping and soaring in a feeding frenzy as insects swarmed in the heavy, ominous air. “ _Plecotus auritus_ and _Pipistrellus pipistrellus…_ Fill your boots, chaps, _”_ he whispered.A storm was coming. Not far off now. He saw the hint of flashes, still hundreds of miles away, on the very edge of his vision.

Adam crossed the narrow ditch that separated his property from hers. There was a gap, a pathway through the trees and scrub made by badgers and widened by him so he could slip through and stand in the shadows, watching her. He could hear her voice already, singing along to a CD or the radio. It was the Beatles; he knew it well enough.

_“…You can talk to me… if you’re lonely you can talk to me…”_

A snuffling at his feet broke his concentration. “ _Erinaceous europeus,”_ he murmured to the brown, spikey little creature whose glistening snout was investigating the long dry grass he stood in. A brighter flash illuminated the scene for a nanosecond, and after a longish pause a louder rattle came from southwest. He heard Stella closing windows on the first floor of the house, and lowering the shutters.

_Battening down the hatches, clever girl_

The breeze was gusting more strongly now, shaking the branches above him in convulsive movements that raged and faded. He looked up once more to see shades of grey morphing rapidly in the sky as the atmosphere was stirred and tossed around by the approaching tempest. He stayed where he was, watching and waiting. He had no intention to do more than observe, but the urge to watch her was irresistible.

And if there was a chance to hear her sing…

 

Stella had closed all the roof windows upstairs, and now she was making sure her computer was disconnected from the mains and praying her Wi-Fi box would not be fried like last time. The isolation she had craved so much came at a price: any outage would be a prolonged one as the two houses were a long way from any others, and some distance from the narrow road. She looked out at the trees, which were swaying, occasionally alarmingly, in the strengthening wind. The noise was deafening and she hoped that none would fall, especially not on the house or the drive.

As she watched the leaf-laden branches waving their insane semaphore messages to each other she thought for a moment she could see someone standing by the boundary, mostly hidden by the trees. But when she looked again, it was just the trunk of a tree covered in ivy and surrounded by nettles.

_You’re seeing things now. Great_

Shrugging off the feeling, she continued to check the house was as secure against the coming storm as it could be. All of a sudden she remembered her garden furniture, and ran outside to pull the heavy table and chairs into the lee of the house and removed the parasol from its base and brought it into the rear porch. That was the only thing likely to be damaged, apart from her watering cans, and those were all safely stowed in the shed already. Her potted plants were gathered in a huddle under the pergola. Just as she was closing the kitchen door a searing flash burned her eyes, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder, seemingly from overhead.

Feeling shaken by the loudness of it, she went to pour herself another glass of the red wine she had opened at dinner. Her pulse began to return to normal, and she walked over to the picture window to watch the reflections of the lightening against the trees and shrubs that lined her drive. Like her house did, she had her back to the approaching storm, and it was exciting to watch the sky lighting up and the wind making the foliage dance.

A second bolt of lightening lit up the scene and this time she knew she was not hallucinating: a man was standing under the trees. She only had a split-second glimpse, but it was enough. He was dressed head to toe in black. His hair was dark too, long and messy; he looked like the quintessential rock star. What on earth was he doing standing out there in this weather, staring at her house?

She felt her heart begin to speed up again. Something about him, his posture and the very fact that he was out there was deeply unsettling. She clutched at her glass, took another long draught. Without the illumination of the storm, she could no longer make him out amongst the shadows; the feeble light from her porch lantern did not reach far beyond the doorstep. Unable to move, she stayed by the window, unsure if she wanted to see him again or not. When the next flash came, he was gone.

 

The first of the huge, heavy raindrops landed on the stone steps of his porch as Adam closed the door behind him. He had left when he saw she had spotted him. He could smell her fear and it hurt. It had never been his intention to frighten her. Now he had a problem.

The storm was fully overhead now; rain crashing down, lightening dazzling and thunder splitting the air every minute. He removed the ancient leather jacket he had donned for his vigil and threw it at the long table in the hallway where it landed on a pile of grubby clothes. Picking a route through the chaos of boxes and bags, he walked into what had once been an elegant reception room. Since his arrival he had filled it with his instruments and recording equipment, and now it resembled the studio of a very disorganised musician.

Ignoring the muddle of his guitars, amplifiers and microphones, Adam strode to the window and peered through a gap in the curtains. The power went out across the way at the same instant as the loudest crash of thunder so far rent the air. His own supply was unaffected, since he was not reliant on the grid. He imagined her, alone in the dark. Was she afraid still? She had to have guessed that he was the man standing under the trees. What did she think he was doing?

He did not want her to be afraid of him. More urgent, he could not risk her complaining to the authorities or talking about him to others. He had to find away to allay her fears. Quickly.

 

Stella lay in bed, unable to sleep. The worst of the thunderstorm had moved on, but rain was battering the roof and the window. However, the noise was not what was keeping rest from her.

_Why had he been standing there? What did he want?_

Her fear had passed rapidly, leaving a curiosity that had not abated. Somehow, she sensed that the pale-faced man next door was not a threat to her. She had known enough danger to recognise its absence. She turned to look at the window, listening to the weather rattling the shutters and wondered what he was doing now. She had seen his face in that brief moment.

She had seen it and it had hurt her heart because it was beautiful and sad.

The next morning dawned damp but with a watery sun poking its way tentatively through thinning clouds. After breakfast she decided to walk around and check what damage had been left in the wake of the night’s excitement. Opening the front door she almost tripped over a collection of objects on the step. There was a small basket of blackberries, a bunch of wild sage and a delicate posy of wildflowers tied up with other herbs: rosemary, lavender. No note, no indication as to who had left them, but she needed none. Stella lifted the flowers and herbs to her face, breathing the fragrance in, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

 

And so began a ritual: a strange, silent and wordless exchange of gifts. Later that day, just as the cooler air was thickening again, presaging another storm, Stella left apples from her orchard and a small loaf of her homemade bread on his front step. She did not bother to ring the bell. When he found them later, Adam was oddly moved. Her gifts were, he realised, the first acts of kindness anyone had shown him since Kos, since he had been alone, truly alone again.

Several nights a week, as August wound on and became September, he would gather up his own offerings: flowers from his wreck of a garden; fruits from the broken down cage in the _potager_ or from the hedgerows he roamed in his nightly rambles, mushrooms from the woods; little treasures from the boxes and bags that filled the rooms of his lonely home. Once he was sure she was asleep, he would leave his presents on her threshold.

Stella would respond in kind, placing a bag or a dish on his porch filled with home baked cakes or biscuits, pies, occasionally salad or fruit from her more managed vegetable garden. She could not know that food was of no use to him. Nonetheless he kept all her gifts until they rotted.

One time, as the autumnal weather continued to be foul, he fashioned her a torch she could use without batteries. He attached a note explaining how to switch it on, written in his exquisite copperplate. When Stella read it she wanted to cry, it was so pretty and perfect. Instead, she folded it carefully and tucked it inside a book of Leonardo Da Vinci’s drawings in her library. Now the weather was colder and the days shorter, she was spending more time in there.

He was a true mystery, her handsome strange neighbour. She still heard his music some nights, wafting over and through the trees. It was sad and mournful, often in a minor key and with a sound that made her think of empty winter beaches and dereliction.   But she had never seen him again after the night of the storm. She began to wonder why she was keeping up the present giving. She had assumed initially that, eventually, one day – or night, he would come over, knock on her door and hand one over in person. Introduce himself. But no. She had sat by the window waiting, hoping to see him walking, to meet him and have the chance to say hello. Again, to no avail. Every three or four weeks he would go out at night in his car but she could never catch so much as a glimpse.

Once she wrote him a note like his, except that in her case she signed it. She explained that she respected his obvious wish for privacy, but that if he cared to drop by one evening, she would love to offer him a drink or something to eat. Just to thank him for all the kind presents…

One morning a few days later, when she checked her step there was a CD nestled in amongst the chrysanthemums and sloes. She felt sad and touched when she saw what he had written on the insert: _Thank you for your kind invitation but I cannot visit._ _I hope you will enjoy this. Adam._

_Adam_

_It suits him_

*****

After around a month of this Adam recognised that he had begun to spend large tracts of his time trying to decide what to give Stella next. What she would like; what would please her? This surprised him, as he had believed himself to be incapable of that any longer: of caring about another. He had loved over the centuries: Eve, of course; Byron, Keats… sweet Mary. But loving meant loss, and the pain of it. There had been too much of that lately: first Marlowe, then Eve. It had been too hard, too much to bear. He had hoped for a hardened heart.

All he knew about Stella he had gleaned from observation. That she liked plants and animals; that she cooked and her food smelled delicious, so delicious that he wished he could eat it; that she loved to read. That she smelled delicious too. And that she loved to sing.

_Stella. Star._

_It suits her._


	2. Part 2

“Any luck with your mysterious neighbour?” Marie-Claire was slipping Stella’s loaf into the slicing machine, at the same time as reaching for a baguette. She was the queen of multi-tasking: she could serve two customers simultaneously and glean the latest gossip from a third with ease.

Stella bit her lip. ‘No,” she lied, although what could she tell her, in all honesty? That they were exchanging gifts constantly but that she still hadn’t met him or even seen him properly. That her head echoed with the hauntingly beautiful music on the CD he had left her? She felt a lump growing in her throat: the mere thought of him moved her.

The baker’s wife shook her head.  “Luc still won’t discuss him. Not a word. I think he’s a little afraid of this man.” She pulled a knowing expression. “Definitely some kind of criminal.”

Stella found herself responding a little too quickly. “Oh I doubt that. He hardly leaves the place, and has no visitors apart from your nephew… No. I’m sure he’s just someone who wants to be left alone.”

Marie-Claire snorted and looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. Why would someone move to such a wonderful village in a beautiful area and then never go anywhere, and worst of all, never visit _her shop_? That’s just _madness_!

This time Stella stopped her car at the curve in the shared drive and looked down the shallow slope at Adam’s house. Even a night owl musician would come out in the daytime occasionally, surely? Houses with the shutters closed all day were not unusual, but this seemed perverse.

It still looked almost as derelict as it had when she bought her place a few years before. The _immoblier_ had shown her both properties, but she had quickly decided that the smaller of the two was more suitable. The larger house needed too much restoration and would be expensive to maintain. After a while it looked as if she was going to remain alone down there, far from the road, on the side of the valley, hard up against the woods. Until Adam had come. It had become a source of comfort for her to look over after dark and see the slits of light from his windows and hear his strange, otherworldly music.

But she barely felt any less alone.

 

He had been dreaming again. He ached from the tension of it. Not the others this time, but nightmares of pain and death and all the things he had once craved. And of Eve: of her face and her hands touching his.

He stood up, surveying his room, searching for his clothes or his robe to cover him. It was cold tonight. Wind was shaking the eaves and the roof above him was only just staying on by the sound of it. He needed to do work on it before any real damage occurred. Still unable to locate the garments he wanted in the chaos, he walked pale and naked along the hallway. Boxes of books were stacked against the walls, thick with dust and the powdery remains of parchment and paper.  He lifted a volume to his face, breathing in the scent of it. Of Eve. His voice was low and muffled by the cardboard and leather.

“Remind me _why_ I should carry on. Please.”

Then his eyes alighted on Stella’s latest gift to him, lying on a table just inside the main room: a small embroidered cloth with his initial picked out in green and red silk, a pattern of leaves and flowers. The scent from it was strong, of her hands and, he thought, of her lips. It filled the room, overpowering the fading memory of Eve’s. The living: always stronger than the dead.

“I cannot, Eve. It is too hard, too much to start again.”

He looked at the wall; at the picture he had hung there the day he moved in. Her white face smiled at him benevolently. His own smile was genuine; he had been happy too. It was taken on one of their wedding days, when a long life felt like a blessing and had not yet become a curse. She would want him to try. She had said so. But he didn’t think he had the courage.

 

Stella woke, the remains of a scream in her throat. She sat up, clutching the sheet, staring blindly. She had dreamed it before and it never got easier. She was back in his house in London, unable to get away, incapable even of speaking. Her heart was pounding, her skin covered in a sheen of sweat.  She made an effort to calm herself; _it was only a bad dream._ She had not suffered nightmares when she was in London, in the midst of it. They would have been redundant: nothing could have been worse than her daily existence.

As she came back to reality, and relaxed, down into the safety of her comfortable bed, she heard a noise outside. Boots on the step.

“Stella? Is everything all right?”

_A deep, soft voice. Gentle_

She got out of bed and went to the window; she raised the shutter. He was looking up at her from the edge of the corona of light her porch lamp threw off. He looked very young in the meagre illumination, and his face was etched with concern.

“Oh, er…hello. I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“I heard you call out.” He did not say he smelled her terror too. Or that he had considered climbing the outside of the house to reach her when he heard the screaming.

“Oh…that… it was just a bad dream.” She saw him begin to turn to leave and she didn’t want that. “I still feel a bit shaky. Will you come in for a few minutes?”

He paused, letting her words sink in.

“Would you like me to?”

She nodded. Her hair was shining in the moonlight. Blonde, but darker than Eve’s, and finer. Still he hesitated, but she was already on her way to the door. By the time she was unlocking it he had found his sunglasses and put them on.

“Please, come in.” She stood back to let him pass. He walked a little way in, his acute vision taking in the prints on the walls and the fine but used furniture. Through an archway he could see bookshelves. He handed her the reason for his presence outside: his offering for the night. A posy of flowers and a small, exquisite treen bowl he had found in a cupboard.  “Thank you so much! Would you like some tea or coffee?” She saw his head turn towards her meagre stock of booze on the buffet. “Or something stronger?”

“No thanks. I’m fine.” He was staring down at her now, the proximity testing the limits of his control.

“Do you mind if I just make a quick cuppa for myself?” He shook his head, making his shaggy hair ripple. “Maybe you’d like to go and sit in the library?”

As he walked into what he had thought was just an alcove and brushed the light switch he gasped. She had an entire room filled with books. And not a small room either, but almost as large as the one he had just left. He touched the floor-to-ceiling shelves as he walked around, inhaling the familiar fragrance of words. His eyes were closed and he was lost in memories. He did not hear her come into the room.

Stella sat on the small sofa and looked at him. He was tall, as she had thought; at least six feet, but slim, thin you might even say. Long, long legs emphasised by his skinny jeans and biker boots. He was wearing a black leather jacket and a grey t-shirt she could just see under it. Black leather driving gloves… And sunglasses. Indoors. At night.

_A real, bona fide, dyed-in-the-wool, old-fashioned rock star._

His face was simply the most beautiful she had ever seen on a man. Pale and gaunt, but with a strong jawline and sharp cheekbones. A dusting of stubble kept the rebel image intact. His nose was long and straight and the seventies style could not completely disguise a receding hairline.

Feeling drawn to his ethereal beauty - despite the apparent affectations - she felt her breathing speed up. In an attempt to normalise it she sighed, and Adam opened his eyes, remembering suddenly where he was. “What was it about?” he asked abruptly.

He had caught her unawares. “Sorry? Oh, the nightmare… My old life. My ex-husband.” He felt the atmosphere in the room darken.

“He treated you badly.” It wasn’t a question. She shrugged.

“I’m rid of him now. I was young when we met, and he was clever. It took me a long time to recognise it as abuse. He never hit me or anything.”

Adam was looking at her, feeling the pain her features betrayed. He saw the tears in her eyes and without thinking he crossed the room to sit beside her. As he did, Stella felt the coldness of him and looked up sharply.

“I’m sorry, Stella. I didn’t mean… I should go.”

He stood again and headed for the door.

“Please don’t.”

He stopped. _L’heure du verité…_ He had a choice to make.

“You just surprised me, that’s all,” she was watching him, staring at his back, willing him to turn around and sit next to her again. “I-I… it’s nice to have someone here. It’s been a while, and even longer since I really _talked_ to anyone about…”

He spoke without turning. “Him?”

‘Yes. About my marriage, if you can dignify it with that name. More of a serfdom, a glorified sort of slavery.” Stella felt anger rising in her chest: giving voice to her past was reviving the feelings too. She had not spoken of these things to anyone apart from police, lawyers and judges. She had no friends left, Barnaby had seen to that. She had no family; no acquaintances, no confidants.

Adam stayed still, sensing the emotions coursing through her, sharing her anger. Stella kept her eyes on him.

“Please, stay a little longer.”

He was wrestling with his conscience. It was not simply a matter of what he wanted. “Stella, I don’t know if-”

She stood up then, her heart sinking at the certainty that he was repelled by her story. She had been warned: if she confided in new potential partners they might either want to replicate her husband’s behaviour or to vilify her compliance. “Of course. I understand.” Tears were close now, but she wanted to hang onto the last shreds of her dignity; she had to live next door to this man.

“No, you don’t,” Adam turned to face her and saw the pain and humiliation. “It has nothing to do with you, with what you did or what you said. No one should treat another person like that. Especially not someone they say they love.” It occurred to Stella that she had not told him much, but that he seemed to have grasped it all. “But I… I should go.” He looked around at her shelves. For the first time since he had left Greece in search of a new hiding place, he felt at home. Her scent, the fragrance of old books, the warmth of her gentleness: all of it made him feel comfortable.

“May I visit you again?” He had bowed his head a little and was looking at her through his eyelashes and his thick fringe of frizzy hair.

_He looks like a teenage boy_

She smiled and nodded. “I’d like that, very much.”

****

Gardening was therapy. Getting her hands in the soil was grounding, literally. Stella dug holes, sprinkled fertiliser and buried bulbs deep, in hope of daffodils and tulips to brighten the beds come March. And while she did this simple manual task, she pondered Adam. She had begun to form a suspicion, one that made sense of his strange behaviour and just might explain him. But such things do not exist outside of fantasy, surely? Nonetheless, her mad notion did make some sense of it all.

She sat back on her heels for a moment, stretched her stiff, aching back and looked through the now largely bare branches of the ash trees at the blank face of his house. As usual it was closed up tight against the fading autumn sun of this chilly afternoon. If she was right, if he was indeed what she was beginning to believe, then he was a very long way from the familiar image of folklore and popular culture. This was a fragile, gentle creature: kind and thoughtful. And she – a woman who had been afraid for years in the presence of a man the world saw as civilised and normal - was not even a little frightened of him. Quite the reverse.

Returning to her horticultural task, she began to hum softly, occasionally breaking into fragments of lyric, not registering her choice of song on a conscious level.

_“… I can offer you a warm embrace…_

_When evening shadows and the stars appear…_

_I could hold you for a million years…_

_The winds of change are blowing wild and free…_

_Go to the ends of the earth for you, to make you feel my love…”_

Just awakening, her strange, beautiful neighbour lay in his bed and bathed in the sound of her voice.

 

Adam decided to forgo his nightly walk on this occasion. He had music in his head he needed to get down. He picked up the acoustic guitar that Luc had brought just the night before. It was new, not one of the classics he preferred, but beggars can’t be choosers. His new helper was building the network of contacts he needed to source the instruments Adam desired, and of course eBay was helping… but for now this _Gibson L-00 Reissue_ would suffice.

Eve wouldn’t have liked this guitar much. She loved old things, wood with a history and a life. He picked it up and held it, imagining her polite disapproval.

_Would she want me to do this? Of course she would; she told me as much. But do I want to do it?_

Frozen in thought, he stood, his eyes unfocused as he tried to get a handle on his own feelings. His body wanted Stella, but since the thunderstorm he had felt his heart drifting closer to her as well. And now this: music from her, for her, about her. He was writing music for a _zombie_ , albeit a special, beautiful one. Was he ready to set his grieving aside, did he want to go down this road, take this risk? He had begun to feel it was already too late to turn back.

He sat down, sprawling his long lean body on the sagging old couch, feeling its worn red velvet tickling the bare skin of his back.  He began to pick out a tune; a melody, sweet and simple. Something unlike anything he had written in years. Approximately one hundred and fifty years, to be more accurate. He closed his eyes and saw her, his fingers still caressing the strings. Her hair, glossy in the moonlight, warm and golden. Her face, sad and pleading. Her books, testament to an inner life he wanted to share. The skin on her neck, soft and inviting. The blood coursing beneath it, racing and not from fear of him. Her scent, the memory of which was even now making him hard.

Focusing on the music, he pushed his desires away. After a couple of hours he was happy with the structure and recorded the guitar line. In another hour he had added some violin cadences and a soft, rhythmic bass accompaniment. He slid a blank disc into the drive and burned it.

****

A week had passed since her nightmare had so alarmed him, but so far Adam had not called again. She was disappointed but not surprised. He had seemed hesitant, unsure and if her suspicions about him were correct, it was understandable. She could be a threat to him, to his very survival. She hoped he sensed she had no wish to harm him. The nights were chilly now, with cold winds and damp air to be excluded. Stella was preparing for bed, checking the ground floor windows were securely shut and the doors locked when she heard a step on the gravel. She knew who it was.

“Good evening, Adam.”

He nodded, almost gave a little bow, but made no attempt to cross the threshold.

“Please, come in, won’t you?”

He took a hesitant step into her living room, feeling the nerves that had beset him all of his sleepless day falling away. As she turned from closing the door he held up the CD he had made.

“I hope you like it.”

She looked at what he had written on the case: _Bright Star._ She raised an eyebrow as she looked at him, then led him to the library where her best hi-fi equipment was located. Adam hovered in the doorway as she sat down and pointed the remote at the player. Tinkling, magical music filled the room. After a minute her head turned towards where he stood, still shifting from foot to foot, his hands stuffed as far into the pockets of his black jeans as he could manage.

“Oh Adam, it’s… beautiful.” She was disappointed in herself:  she should have been able to express it better.

“You like it?” he asked; anxious, unsure, childlike.

She nodded. “Did you write it for me?”

He smiled shyly. Stella thought she had never seen anything more moving in her life. His perpetually serious face lit up, his pale cheeks rounded as his mouth lifted. She stood up and walked over to where he still lurked on the threshold.

“Take them off.” She meant his sunglasses.

Adam shook his head, looking down at the floor. “No, I shouldn’t.”

“It’s all right. I am not afraid.” He brought his eyes up sharply to meet hers. Something in the firmness of her expression told him to do as she asked.

Stella did not flinch when she saw the glittering copper of his irises. She watched his gaze move over the flesh of her neck and shoulder, visible to him where her sloppy sweater had slipped off a little. She heard him gasp as her hand reached up and touched his arm. She watched his mouth as it opened a little and she took a step closer.

“Stella…”

“I know, Adam.”

Her hand touched his, lifted it up and tugged at the glove.

“If I, if we… Stella, this will mean-”

“I know. Please.”

He thought afterwards that perhaps he should have stopped, just walked away. Because how could she know, how could she possibly understand all the implications of what she was asking him for? But he did not walk away. Instead he allowed her to remove his glove and kiss his palm with hers. When she did he lost his self-control and pulled her body against his. His mouth sought hers, his lips brushing over her skin, his nose nuzzling her hair as he luxuriated in the fragrance of her.

He was moaning, growling deep in his chest but still she felt no fear. She ran her hands down his body, cupped his backside. She was out of control too, desperate for physical closeness of a kind she had never known. Adam’s hands reached for her head and he pulled back from kissing her for a moment. He looked deeply into her eyes.

“Stella, wait. If we… You say you know, but there is so much you _cannot_ know.” He stared at her, trying to gauge her true feelings. “If we make love,” Her eyes closed for a moment at the thought of it. She had never wanted anything more. “I will have to drink from you. I want to, I will need to: it’s what I am. But if I do, then only one of two things can happen: I will kill you, or I will turn you. Make you the same as me. I do not wish to kill you, my love, but is the other what you truly wish for: to be like me?”

She held his gaze even as her body pressed into his, crying out for him. She nodded. “If it means I can stay with you, Adam, then yes.”

Before he could ask her anything else she kissed his mouth again, grabbing handfuls of his thick black hair and pulling him against her. His arms went around her, and he lifted her up to carry her to the couch behind them. As he set her back on her feet she felt him pulling at her clothes as his lips moved over the flesh already exposed. Stella helped him and did what she could to remove his. She was suddenly hyper-aware of the blood flowing around her body, of the pounding of her pulses.

She opened her eyes again to see his fixed on her. He was naked now, and she admired the pale sculpture of his torso. Muscle and bone, skin and hair, she wanted it all. She smelled him too, something dark and primitive, ancient and natural. She knew at that moment that she loved him, and that was all she needed to know.

 Adam felt it too. He had not believed he would, that he could find this again. He had not sought it out, but still it had found him. He heard the blood rushing in her arteries, smelled her love and her need. His song without words for her still played behind them. His fingers on the guitar, wishing that the strings were her hair, his lips pursed in a kiss as he bowed the violin.

They stood in the moonlight that caressed their bare bodies through the window. Stella took his hand in hers, leading him through the living room to the staircase. When they reached her bedroom she turned to face him and leaned her head to one side. There was no fear in her face. He shook his head. “Later,” he whispered as his hands roamed her soft, naked skin.

It had been so long since he had been with anyone but Eve. It felt strange to hold a warm body against his. He had fed from and turned a few in recent times; that was how bad things had become. But not this. This was different. Her pulse was loud in his ears, the scent of her want overpowering him. The universe had sent him his diamond, a star from the sky.

She touched him, her fingertips running gently over his white skin, leaving trails of electricity. He held himself steady, calming the urgent, deep desire that made him want to ravage her, to push her down onto the bed and rut like a beast. This intimacy was as unfamiliar to Stella as it was to him, that much he could tell, and he wanted to make it special. Because this was a moment she would remember for a very long time.

Leaning into her he rubbed his face against hers. He wanted to speak but the only words that came to him seemed to get stuck, almost choking him. He wanted to say how good it felt to feel her against him. He wanted to say how delicious her skin tasted as he licked and kissed it. And he wanted to say what she meant to him.

Stella felt him pause and feared he had changed his mind again.

“Please, Adam. I want this, I am sure.”

The pain and longing in her voice was enough to push his final doubts away. His mouth crushed hers in a deep kiss that went on and on, until she had to pull away to breathe. His mouth wandered lower, searching, testing, learning. He sucked the skin on her collarbones; he let his teeth brush over her nipples, pulling back as his arousal made his fangs descend. His hands were travelling too, feeling her curves. She was fuller, human, alive. He was hard now and not sure he could wait much longer.

Stella decided for him. Her legs were shaking, her heart pounding and her body aching with want. She took hold of his arms and pulled him on top of her as she fell back onto the bed. His hand went to her sex and she moaned loudly. The sound of it pushed him to the brink of madness. She was tugging at his arms, guiding him between her legs. He caught her mouth in another kiss, long and soft this time, his tongue against hers, his fangs grazing it, their breaths mingling.

Stella opened her eyes and looked down to reach for him. She had never known it to be like this. There was never such passion in her marriage bed, and she had not known what it was to feel such a need. In all those years she had simply prayed for it to be over, and for Barnaby not to notice the disgust and pain on her face. Not that he would have cared. This sensual joy, this naturalness, this pure pleasure was undreamt of in the horror of her time with him.

Adam moaned as her fingers wrapped around his length. The touch of a woman, a living woman was overwhelming. And the sounds she was making, the feel of her hot breath on his chest as she gently but implacably pulled him to her. If he continued, if they were joined then there was no turning back. There could be no second thoughts. He looked into her eyes again. She nodded.

“Stella, this is your last chance. Are you certain this is what you want?” His whisper made her heart swell. She nodded again.

“Yes, yes…Please, Adam.”

“I’ll try not to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.” His words were breathy, soft in her ears and she had hardly absorbed their meaning when she felt the tip of him at first just nudging and then slipping inside her. It was glorious. It went on for a long time, as he slowly filled her, stretching her and making her body sing. She clung to him and when they were fully joined, when he could go no further she sucked on his neck and whispered, “I love you.”

Adam felt the animal in him taking over, driving his body against hers, into hers with a strength he could only just rein in. Later, when she was truly his, he could allow it. But not tonight. She was watching his face and the trust she had in him made him feel something that he believed had left his life: joy.

Stella felt herself surrendering to the magnificence of him. The power of his thrusts, the grace of his movements, the beauty of his body. She was close, very close now but she sensed that his orgasm was the crucial one. She felt hers rising, rushing down her back to settle in her sex. She called his name as her body flexed into his. Adam watched her come apart, gloried in her response to him. He felt his own completion nearing and held her as tightly as he dared.

“Stella, it is coming.”

His breath on her shoulder made her shudder and lust swirled deep inside her again. He began to moan louder until it became more of a growl and then, as his hips snapped into her with such speed and force the breath left her lungs, his fangs sank into the soft, yielding flesh of her neck.

****

It must have snowed during the day. Stella could detect it in the quality of the sounds from outside. The air felt different tonight also. She turned and looked at Adam, still peacefully asleep beside her. His face was childlike when at rest: barely a line, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a permanent half-smile of contentment.

Her fingers brushed over the scars on her neck, now almost completely healed. She had not anticipated the pain she would suffer in the turning, but it was now just a distant memory. It was a much less unpleasant one than those she still had of Barnaby and her imprisonment in his gilded cage. She was humming quietly to herself, the melody of the Gershwin song that had first pulled Adam to her. She had never felt more alive than she did now. She could hear every sound, smell the leaves decaying in the woods; sense the presence of the wild things that lived there.

She had gained so much more than she had lost.

Adam was stirring now, nuzzling her shoulder, his long musical fingers exploring the soft swell of her breast. He was making low moaning sounds, noises she had learned meant his arousal was building.

“Adam?” Her voice was quiet and husky from her screams of pleasure.

“Yes, my darling, my star?” He was pressing little sharp kisses and nips into the flesh of her neck now.

“Is this what life will be like from now on? Waking up every day to make love with you?”

He paused, remembering the past. “It might change. But only if one or both of us wishes it to.” He pulled his arm up so he could rest on his elbow as he looked at her with a serious expression. “When I was in America, and before that, I allowed myself to become very…”

“Depressed?” She was gazing into his face. She had gleaned that much from his music.

“I’d call it melancholy, but yes. It is in me to be that way again.” Stella stroked his thick dark hair. His eyes searched hers. “I would never beg you to stay, Stella, but if you can bear to…”

“Oh, Adam.” It was possible they had years, centuries perhaps ahead of them, and she would not begin their time together with a lie. She took his free hand in both of hers and kissed the palm. “I won’t make you a promise that I will never leave, because I can’t be sure of that. But I can promise that I will never stop loving you.” Her eyes filled with tears but she kept her voice steady. “I chose to join you, Adam. And if I can keep you safe, from yourself as well as this harsh world we have to endure, then I will.”

He kissed her mouth then. It was a soft, long, lingering kiss. A kiss between two souls, two damaged hearts that had found one another in the wilderness.

 


End file.
